The Lady of Blossholme eBook

So she talked on, and Emlyn, listening, did not dare
to tell her the truth: that here she feared for
the life of her child, dreading lest that news might
bring about the death of both of them. So she
let her be, and fell back on her own wits.

First she thought of escape, only to abandon the idea,
for her mistress was in no state to face its perils.
Moreover, whither should they go? Then rescue
came into her mind, but, alas! who would rescue them?
The great men in London, perhaps, as a matter of policy,
but great men are hard to come at, even for the free.
If she were free she might find means to make them
listen, but she was not, nor could she leave her lady
at such a time. What remained, then? So to
contrive that they should be set free.

Perhaps it might be done at a price—­that
of Cicely’s jewels, of which she alone knew
the hiding-place, and with them a deed of indemnity
against her persecutors. Emlyn was not minded
to give either. Moreover, she guessed that it
might be in vain. Once outside those walls, they
knew too much to be allowed to live. And yet within
those walls Cicely’s child would not be allowed
to live—­the child that was heir to all.
What, then, could loose them and make them safe?

Terror, perhaps—­such terror as that through
which the Israelites escaped from bondage. Oh!
if she could but find a Moses to call down the plagues
of Egypt upon this Pharaoh of an Abbot—­those
plagues with which she had threatened him—­but
although she believed that they would fall (why did
she believe it? she wondered), she was as yet impotent
to fulfil.

Now Thomas Bolle! If only she could have words
with that faithful Thomas Bolle, the fierce and cunning
man whom they thought foolish!

This idea of Thomas Bolle took possession of Emlyn’s
mind—­Thomas Bolle, who had loved her all
his life, who would die to serve her. She strove
in vain to get in touch with him. The old gardener
was so deaf that he could not, or would not, understand.
The silly Bridget gave the letter that she wrote to
him to the Prioress by mistake, who burnt it before
her eyes and said nothing. The monks who brought
provisions to the Nunnery were always received by
three of the sisters, set to spy on each other and
on them, so that she could not come near to them alone.
The priest who celebrated Mass was an old enemy of
hers; with him she could do nothing, and no one else
was allowed to approach the place except once or twice
the Abbot, who was closeted for hours with the Prioress,
but spoke to her no more.

Why, wondered Emlyn, should less than half-a-mile
of space be such a barrier between her and Thomas
Bolle? If he stood within twenty yards of her
she could make him understand; why not, then, when
he stood within five hundred? This idea possessed
her; these limitations of nature made her mad.
She refused to accept them. Night by night, lying
brooding in her bed, while Cicely slept in peace at
her side, she threw out her strong soul towards the
soul of her old lover, Thomas Bolle, commanding him
to listen, to obey, to come.